Power of voodoo
Who: Flynn, notglitching, and anyone else who would be involved.
Where: Outlands
When: Now
What: Actions, reactions, attempting to reason.
Warnings: Probably some mind screwery. Attempts will be made to keep violence to a minimum.
( Who do? You do. Do what? )
Where: Outlands
When: Now
What: Actions, reactions, attempting to reason.
Warnings: Probably some mind screwery. Attempts will be made to keep violence to a minimum.
( Who do? You do. Do what? )
Rinzler had targeted the enclosing solidity of the tiny cell, turned strikes into fractures, fractures to broken shards, shattered voxels, opening, exit. There was no quarantine field, no background overlay of disruption to lock him down. Mistake. He wouldn't be kept so easily.
When the darkening fragments had slid to join the others on the ground, the gap growing large enough to slip through, the program had emerged only to more walls. Twisting corridors cutting off retreat, the static crackle of a force field blocking the sky above. The space was larger. Less direct. Still a cage. He'd stalled for a moment, fury rising through his processing, surging loud and jagged in his endless noise as his grip tightened on the burning orange disks. His disks. (The user tried to take them, too.) He'd known the paths would be useless. Expected the turns, spirals, branching misdirection. This was a trap. It had always been a trap. A lie.
The mirrors came as a surprise.
The enforcer's rumble ticked out unsteadily as the program glanced behind-and the motion was matched by his images on all sides. The path was lined with silvered reflections, dark limbs and red-orange circuitry in constant motion, visual redirect pervasive. It didn't make sense. No purpose to it-the delay in navigation was minimal, the structure and pattern of the surrounding data evident enough despite the visual distortion. Rinzler didn't trust it. (Didn't like it.)
Doesn't matter.
He moved forward. Steps quiet, but his sound echoed loud and harsh off the walls around. His disks stayed in either hand, faint hum an almost comforting counterpoint to the distorted rattle all around. Rinzler didn't know what to expect here, what else the user had planned. But he'd be ready.
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Then she carefully detached her own identity disk and laid it down, flat in a corner unreflected by the mirrored surfaces.
Flynn wouldn't approve that, if he could see. But it was necessary, and not just because it marked her definitively as noncombatant. If Rinzler were close enough and actually wanted to derez her, having a disk she could never draw against him was no help. Not having her disk, eliminating both the instinctive clutch for it and the shuddering terror of manipulation that she couldn't help when Rinzler's armor was close, was worth the worry of leaving it unattended.
She stood up slowly, pacing away from the disk and trying to judge Rinzler's position. He'd reach the other end of the mirrors soon.
Soon.
Now.
The black-and-red was unmistakable, Clu's hunter, Grid Champion, disks out and furious. The pattern was also unmistakable: Tron!
"Sir!" Yori exclaimed in worried relief, nothing pretense but the title. "What's going on?"
And then she walked directly into the mirrored surface that showed a distant Rinzler.
It wasn't because she'd forgotten where she was.
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It took him longer than he'd like to place the source, catch the distinct image in the array of copies around him. The movement helped. The black helmet fixed, noise rattling out with a vicious edge as the other stepped, collided, jumbled reflection close, distant.
...and lit with orange lines.
Rinzler paused. ...No. Another trick. A lie. All of this was.
Or the user had something more at work.
A moment of stillness, then the enforcer turned, sound rumbling low and harsh as he stalked away from the distorted image. Not away from the subject, though. The path of reflection was hardly impossible to trace, and his sensors weren't so badly malfunctioning as to mistake solid reflection for open space. Target or threat or captive, this program would serve his purposes-if only as he ripped any data it (she) might have from its disk. Ally or trick, he hardly needed the other intact.
And Rinzler wanted a fight.
He reached an intersection and paused, mask tipping to the sides in brief assessment. The reflections were more scattered here, silvered surfaces reflecting shape and form on all sides. Bright lines mingled with his own red-orange dots, images merging, shifting at the slightest motion. He could make out enough, though. Female. That direction (probably). No disk, after all. A potential problem.
...
Blond hair. Noncombative stance. Detailed circuitry (known-wrong). Rinzler's noise skipped out uneven as his head dipped with brief redirect, view angling-features shifting into sight-
no
He froze.
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Yori hid the knot of despair deep, where it twisted into all its kindred. Tron, and beloved, but not hers. Again.
Oh, the fury was universal enough, and the helmet made it hard to be certain of subtleties, but the delayed recognition was sufficient evidence. If Rinzler did not know her as a program valued by Clu, then he was not the Tron from her own past. That abrupt and total halt--that was Tron's recognition, an effect she well remembered. Not a Rinzler who had ever worked with Clu's Portal supervisor. Not a Rinzler Clu would have permitted to do so.
Which meant that she had no idea what Clu's reprogramming would make of her presence, and no idea what had happened to the Yori of this Rinzler's past. All her efforts here were akin to flying blind at ground level in a city she'd never seen.
Careful, then. Take it slow.
She hadn't moved very far since Rinzler had entered the mirrors, but she was monitoring his location with care. If he got too close too soon and his programming saw her as a threat, there would be trouble.
Her voice was low-pitched to carry well, but not free of trepidation; who would be in these circumstances? "What are your orders, sir?"
Orders from Clu about her, or orders for her; either would give her more information than she had now.
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The words slid easily into place, a match with the orange lines, the note of hesitation (fear). Normal. Correct. Just another-
NO.
Warning: corruptive-
The black mask jerked sideways, noise jarring out fragmented and loud. She couldn't-no. (Redirect-) It was a lie, a trick, again and wrong and he would destroy them for-
ERROR: unauthorized-
His systems were burning, reprimand chasing rewrite chasing restraint in little loops, feedback building, breaking. He couldn't think, couldn't move-had to move, automation snaking through his functions, command, need, response locking him out utterly. There was a step forward, ticking growl stuttering out with something approaching normalcy as his mask lifted-find the source, fix it, de-
No. No no no no no...
He staggered back, urgent stabbing panic cutting through as his circuits flared bright, darkened nearly to black, guttered unsteadily. His hands came up-disks, the one locked around the other with a desperate rigid hold. Another step back-he found a wall, couldn't process, couldn't-she couldn't-
She can't be here.
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Yori ran five steps closer before she remembered her own danger, and pressed herself to the nearest mirror that showed a clear view of Rinzler. She could not go closer, not yet. Not when Rinzler was too clearly snarled in feedback loops on her behalf, not when Flynn would stop her if she even tried. They all had enough nightmares already.
But she couldn't let Rinzler, let Tron hurt himself, not like this. Not for a very damaged copy of the program he was fighting so hard to remember.
"I'm not her!"
The words tore free with no analysis at all, and Yori didn't know what in many worlds either Rinzler or Clu's many-times-cursed glitching traps would make of them. She couldn't bear his pain. "I'm not--" Her voice broke, a shudder racking her. "She would never have served Clu."
Truth, painful enough to shatter her.
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He didn't understand.
'Not her.'
...A trick? Lie?
User lie. Again. That was the answer, that had always been the answer, and he latched onto it with a desperate certainty as his processing shifted to alignment. The mask raised, circuits settled at a dim orange burn as his grip shifted on his weapons, clenched tight and furious. They had-he would destroy them, break them, dig in his disks until he felt them shatter, give, bleed their code across the smooth black ground. Always lies. First Clu, and now-
now-
(He knew-)
ERROR-
The disks dipped, faltered, edges going dark and it was right/wrong, can't/had to, and he couldn't think and he didn't know and he was broken. Noise stuttered out harsh and formless and he stepped back (get away), but there was nowhere to go. He slid down the mirrored wall, helmet twitching to the side as reflections fractured with proximity, delicate features and anguished stare (known) merging with his own dark and empty shell. Red-orange circuitry overlapped, twisted and angled in dots and shapes and lies and it didn't mean anything-it meant everything, and she-he-
'...would never have served Clu.'
His head lowered. He was-he had-she-she couldn't-
no
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Still not a single word escaped him, either. Another sign that this Rinzler had even more restrictions than most she'd met. But more, quite possibly, because they had proved too easily broken.
Fight him, Tron--
What could she say that could help, either by reassuring the traps Clu had set or by supporting Tron? Was there anything at all that wouldn't make it worse?
No. Nothing she could say.
Gridbugs take Flynn's caution; his disks were shut off, that was as good a promise as she was ever likely to get. Tron wouldn't let Clu's programming harm her, if she was any judge of his reactions.
The mirrored layout was meant to confuse, but Yori had studied it well. If she slipped through here and turned that surface parallel...
"Please help me," she whispered. To Tron--Rinzler--or maybe to Flynn, that he would let her try this, or even to the Lora of her earliest memories who had never actually known her.
And then she was beside Rinzler, kneeling to minimize the distance between, and close enough to transmit not one, but two nonverbal recognition codes at once. The first Yori's own, dating back to Encom. The second a command from Clu, with the Admin's own signature, if only it were similar enough cross-worlds, that meant roughly translated Mine. No permanent damage allowed.
The Admin had been glitching possessive, and the Grid not always predictable.
If only it let Rinzler stop fighting Tron's protectiveness, she wouldn't mind the way touching that code again made her feel like an Iso sculpture after the Blackguards visited the park.
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...No.
Peripheral sensors flared with motion, proximity, and his mask snapped up as the wall slid, turned. No. Not leaving, not gone-safe-she was here. He froze. Locked up. Sound jarred out without even a semblance of regularity, panic and priority and refusal wrecking through. Not an image, not a lie or fragment or broken echo-it was her. His own circuitry darkened, flickered, and he knew but he didn't remember and she was crouching down beside him-she-
He couldn't let her.
Fragmented terror coalesced to certainty, dread became intent, action (reaction). He moved. Hands found the ground, disks pressed flat and inactive against the surface as he shoved up, back, away. She couldn't be here. He couldn't be here. Not again, not ever, and-
...
Yori
The recognition code mapped into his sensors, and the program stilled. Eyes closed behind the mask, unending noise stuttered low and muted, and for a moment he was almost silent. The helmet dipped, orange glow flickering weakly-because he did know (remember), even though he couldn't, against all permissions or access or crackling deletion, and it-she-
(His fault.)
And then the second code hit, and his head jerked up to stare in utter incomprehension as the command settled deep, restrictions shifting, realigning, because Clu had-was-what?
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She'd definitely gotten his attention.
Now what? Yori wondered, uneasy with her own impulsiveness. This was no longer a well-planned campaign, only desperation and pain. It took effort not to flinch away from the hidden gaze within the helmet, familiar and completely unknown.
"No one wants to hurt me here," she murmured, reassurance for them both. And Flynn, if he were listening. "You'd protect me. Wouldn't you." Not really a question.
Careful--careful--give Tron weapons to use, don't force a head-on battle-- "Listen," a quiet plea. "I know this whole place is confusing you. This isn't the Grid, not your Grid. It's a new system. We don't have any orders that apply here, and there are a lot of programs who look like the Admin and aren't."
Yori could only hope that her logic slipped past Clu's traps in this Rinzler's mind as well as it had worked in her own.
"I'm an analyst. I know Clu will need information and free allies when he arrives," she went on. "We don't know what he'll want to do. It's hard to re-rez a program. Will you promise me you won't derez anyone? Not without clear orders from your own Admin?"
It was about the best promise Yori thought they were ever likely to get, without forcing a complete break or actually managing to edit his code. If Clu were on the Grid and sufficiently convincing, no promise could hold a Rinzler anyway; Flynn would have to deal with Clu directly.
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She was touching him. Gentle pressure, lingering trace. Hand on wrist, but not a grab, not a hold or restraint or attack. Response categories flickered active through his processing, but they didn't match, didn't fit-not threat, not trap. Not Clu. He needed-needed to move, run, defend, (reach out). There was no correct reaction. There were too many. In the end, maybe it was a hold. He stayed utterly still.
'No one wants to hurt me.' His noise caught faintly. True. He-he didn't, he couldn't now. The transmitted command shifted through his functions, and he shifted aside, let it wrap deep and binding through his core. No damage. It-she was Clu's, which-no. That was wrong, she couldn't-shouldn't-(Redirect-)
'You'd protect me.'
...No. He didn't (Warning: unauthorized-), he hadn't. The black mask dipped, and he was shaking, and it hurt but it didn't matter, because he-
He couldn't protect her.
The rest of the words came distant, unfocused. A request. But promises were lies and words were imperfections and derezz was all he could do, all he was made for. Destroy. Not protect. Noise skipped out in formless static and the dark shell rose to meet her stare as his circuitry dimmed and flickered, and just briefly, just for an instant, threaded through with a lighter shade. Different. Wrong. It didn't last.
"can't"
The noise husked out on the edge of hearing. He broke the hold. Stepped back.
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"I understand," Yori whispered, hand curling in as though she could preserve that feeling. The words caught in her throat and sparked a painful pressure behind her eyes. "You can't yet." Keep trying, Tron. For her sake. Keep trying. "But please don't go."
She wasn't likely to get this close again, maze and mirrors or no; the programming conflicts were too clear and too violent. Yori forced her spine rigid and fixed a half-pleading, half-commanding stare on Tron's hidden eyes. "What are your orders? We can help each other."
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Error-
He didn't know.
The program's own hand tightened, closed to a fist, the feather-light memory of contact pulsing briefly through the erratic orange circuitry, ghosting through his processing with unfamiliar closeness. He stared back at her, sound ticking out quietly. Nearly even. He was half pulled away, half drawn back, caught in a crouch on the edge of proximity. Mask low, spine curved (always).
Eyes dropped behind the black helmet. He shook his head.
And Rinzler stepped back, stepped away, turned to move, leave, break from this looping cycle of uncertain failure. Because she was wrong. He couldn't help her.
He couldn't be here.
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Oh, Tron.
"She didn't blame you," Yori said, desperately, because he was leaving and she might never have another chance, because the pain under that helmet was more than she could bear even across worlds. It wouldn't help. If Tron even understood it, it wouldn't make anything better, but she couldn't not say it.
She stumbled an unwise step further, tried to force her racing thoughts under control; shook her head sharply. "Sir--there are at least four Users out there--I can't fight four Users alone--"
High-risk, bringing up Users as a common threat when Flynn or Alan One might be trying next, but there was some chance the concept or the purposeful phrasing could work where her own plea had failed. Better to know the reaction before Flynn risked himself or anyone else.
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He jerked back to motion, noise surging up and out in jarring irregularity. Redirect, refocus. He couldn't feel-didn't know-his processing was shattered, paths and directions diverging to pointless loops, incomplete lines. It meant something. It meant nothing. It hurt. Rinzler clung to it, pushed it away, grasped at the tangled fragments of control, automation-or no, it was grasping at him, holding him together, forcing him to completeness. But it didn't hold, there was a fractured note, a broken edge cutting through the fragile structure of control. She was speaking again.
He always listened.
But the words were wrong, the words were lies, he didn't know, he wasn't (wasn't right)-she couldn't-
fight for the users
The program stopped. A sound surged up, broke out loud and sharp and wordless-a snarl, a ragged gasp, an edged and formless whine before the ticking rattle surged up in its wake. Deletion struggled up, redirect swamping-there was protocol, response. He turned back, weapon flaring bright-froze halfway, locked up with desperate terror and refusal and new-binding command. No. No, no, he (fight) (Warning-) couldn't (protect) (delete the source-Redirect: no damage-), it was-he-
There was nothing to fight.
He was rigid-always rigid, always stiff and unmoving and drawn in small and empty. Trapped, waiting, staring blankly at his own frozen reflection in the walls of the cage. He couldn't fight, couldn't run, couldn't think. Redirect looping with nowhere to go, reprimand and rewrite crackling through to no effect. He couldn't remember. He couldn't forget. Rinzler hated it.
The orange disk smashed forward, shattering the mirrored image to broken shards, edged voxels sliding to the ground. The weapon dug into the wall beyond, slim fractures spreading from the point of impact, and he leaned forward, arm shaking, head jerking back and forth, no, no, no again and again. Because he couldn't break through, not really, couldn't break out.
He was broken.
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She didn't try to dodge. If Tron's stubbornness and her own long-accursed loyalty to Clu weren't enough to intervene, then running would only mark her an enemy.
Then he stopped, still more than an arm's length distant, and his fury abruptly found another target.
Tron would tell her to go--any version. Flynn would certainly tell her to get out of there. Rinzler pretty much had told her, in spite of the extensive and painful reprogramming.
Some things were more important than logic.
"How can you serve Clu if your code's fragmenting this badly?" Yori demanded, summoning a sharpness that came uneasily and faded to a plea. "Sir. Rinzler." The name she had so far avoided, invoked now to calm Clu's programming. No threat here, no threat. "I am an analyst, Clu gave me code permissions. Please. We don't know where he is, we don't want to fail him!"
Permissions that had technically been valid only for Portal work, but it was not exactly a lie, except for that last. Rinzler and the faint remnants of Clu's contamination didn't entirely qualify as we.
Yori took a step closer again, extending both hands palms up, and stilled all her processes for fear the hope and terror jolting violently for priority would crash her.
Trying not to wonder what, exactly, she thought she could do alone against Clu's deep-rooted reprogramming even if by wild chance and Tron's long fight this happened to work.
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